However, I feel in this incongruent behavior of nature a message of support to my life. The signs that no one can claim as his, are the ones that hide the truth precisely because they do not have a visible destination. No one can convince me for the opposite. There is no one that can talk to me. It is difficult to find even a single person to whom will confess the thousands of words that I carry on me. This white page is perhaps my only companion that uncomplainingly lets me lay the words on it surface. This sheet of paper that darkens from the marks left there by the hand, is led by my heart to write parallel lines of sentences, perhaps even meaningless. It is a circle of unending sentences made of thousand of lines of words that may mean the Seven Letters. What a waste, really, for just
